Page 25 of I Do With You

“Family friend,” Ben answers for me, leaning down so he’s eye level with Maddie. “You got a problem with that?” His jaw is clenched, his eyes stone cold, and his entire demeanor has gonefuck around and find out. It’s like the many faces of Ben Taylor: there’s the helpful, friendly, nice guy; the silly, fun jokester; the no-nonsense defender; and then the full-on monster. I’m not sure which one I like best, because he always seems to use them for my benefit.

“Oh, uh ... I haven’t seen you before. Thought maybe you were a tourist or something,” Maddie says, makingtouristsound like the equivalent toshit on my shoe.

Maple Creek has a long-standing and complicated relationship with tourists. We need them to survive. Visitors are the bread and butter that keep the town and many of our businesses afloat. But they also tend to come in and take over, thinking they’re special and that locals are here to be at their beck and call. So some people—like Maddie, apparently—prejudge and shoot themselves in the foot.

“Mm-hmm,” Ben hums, still glaring coldly at Maddie.

Choosing to bypass the big, scary adversary, she turns her attention back to me, adopting a conspiratorial tone like we’re long-lost besties. “What happened with you and Roy, girl? It’s true you’re pregnant, isn’t it? You can totally tell. But is it really someone else’s baby and not Roy’s?” She looks like she’s ready to hear the juiciest, freshest gossip she’s ever had the chance to spread.

“What? No!” I screech, garnering the attention of the few other shoppers in the store. Patting my flat belly, I snap loud enough for them all to hear, “Not pregnant. Why does everyone think that? And definitely not with someone else’s baby!”

Maddie tilts her head, obviously not believing one word of that. “Suuure. If you say so.”

Ben holds up the two suits between me and the counter because there’s a very real chance I might go over it and show Maddie just how not-pregnant I am ... with a fist to her jaw. Shepherd taught me how, so I know how to throw a solid hook even if I’ve never actually hit anything worse than one of his hockey gloves held up as a target.

“We’re taking these. Here ya go.” He throws a bill on the counter and wraps his hand around my upper arm, essentially holding me back and guiding me away. “Let’s go swimming, Hope. Yeah?”

I scowl at Maddie one more time but let Ben lead me out the door before I explode. “What the hell?” I shout. “Does everyone ... Why would they think ...” And finally, quieter, I ask, “Do I look pregnant?”

Ben chuckles, running his hand through his hair. “No, Hope. You look beautiful, sexy, and right this moment, a little crazy, but not pregnant.”

For a second, I’m almost offended by the crazy part, but truthfully, I kinda like that description too. I straighten my T-shirt with a jerk, standing up straighter. “That’s right. Thank you.”

“We still swimming?” he prompts.

A few minutes ago, he was anti-swimming. Now he’s raring to go. And I am too. Even if it’s to get away from rude shopworkers who think they know my business when they don’t.

The water is perfect—sun-heated, but not like swimming in bathwater with other people, because that’s gross. But Ben was right. He cannot swim. At all.

“Come out farther. You can still touch,” I say, trying to entice him. He’s in waist-deep water, the neon of his suit still visible beneath the surface, which laps at his belly button.

“Says the girl swimming like her life depends on it.”

At best, I’m paddling around lazily, but because of the look on his face, I plant my feet on the dirt below. The water reaches up to my chin, which means it’d be chest-high on Ben. “See? You can do it. Baby steps.” I hold my hands out and wiggle my fingers like I’m tempting a child to come to me. “C’mere! Just a little deeper,” I say, throwing my voice high and saccharine sweet.

“Don’t ever say that in that tone of voice again,” Ben says, seeming fully serious. But I’m catching on to that glint in his eye when he’s joking.

“Huh?” It takes me replaying my own words to hear what he’s talking about, and when I do, I splash water his way, drenching him. “Gross! I didn’t mean it like that. I meant deeper in the water.”

He grins and I realize that without me even noticing, he’s several steps closer now and water is running down his chest and over his shoulders. “I know, but dirty talk and baby talk should never be one and the same, in my book.”

“What if they are in mine?” I counter, daring him to argue with me.

I don’t have a book. And I’ve certainly never dirty-talked or baby-talked, so even if I did have one, it wouldn’t be in there. What would be? Normal things, like missionary sex three times a week, a couple of minutes of snuggling afterward, and then going about my daily business. Why do I feel like those things aren’t even included in Ben’s book? And why do I feel like maybe I’m missing out on a lot of things I’ve never considered?

“Um, so whatisin your book if it’s not dirty talk or baby talk?” I venture, swimming a circle around him.

He doesn’t spin around, but rather turns his head, following my progress with dark eyes. “I didn’t say those things weren’t there. I said they’re not the same thing. You gotta use them for different purposes.”

I feel like he’s educating me, or at least coaching me, on a whole new world. When I act like I’m writing that down, storing that tidbit away on page one of my newly imaginedBook of Sex-crets, he grins.But it’s not his friendly smile. No, he—and that grin—look dangerous. They make me feel ... gooshy inside.

“Different things. Dirty talk: one thing; baby talk: another. Check. What else should I know?”

A muscle tics in his jaw. “Hope ...”

The warning is drawn out, almost a groan, but I want to know what I’ve been missing. All of it. “Ben, tell me. Please.”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s fortifying himself, and continues, “Say what you like and don’t like. Anybody you’re with should be willing to listen because you know your body better than anyone. If he doesn’t, don’t fuck him. Explore, experiment, try new things, but only if you want to. There’s never pressure to do something you don’t want to do.” Ben slices his arms through the water, creating waves that lap at my skin, which is suddenly oversensitive and hyperaware of every sensation.

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